


the encyclopedia of lost saints

by norio



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 09:06:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6698668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norio/pseuds/norio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They flocked to Bokuto, deluges of admirers. They flattered him in scented love letters and confessions under cherry blossoms. And when they left, only Akaashi remained in the desolate wasteland.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the encyclopedia of lost saints

Solely a club. Solia A. Club. Solely only solely only a club. Only a club. Only a love.

If Akaashi had to pinpoint the beginning, he would say the moment when he was a first-year student. He had been sitting on the floor of the gym, holding a roll of athletic tape. His fingers, unused to the rigorous high school practices, tired around his joints. Out of the haziness of the memory, Bokuto’s knees stood out the most. For some reason, Bokuto had taken off his kneepads. His bare knees were raw and vulnerable. Bokuto knelt before him, talking loudly and taking his hand. Akaashi couldn’t remember what Bokuto said. He remembered the rough hands tucking the tape against his slender fingers, folding and winding with good, clean strokes. 

If Akaashi had to pinpoint the catalyst, he would say the moment when a first year confessed to Bokuto. She’d seen him at practice. She heard so much about him. She knew she was just a stranger, but she hoped they could get along. Bokuto had accepted and bragged before practice. Akaashi fixed the collars of his track suit, disinterested in how nice she was, how courageous, how Bokuto was the best after all!, how he was looking forward to all their dates, how she was in the smart class, too, college prep, how it was so fitting that someone confessed to him, and recognized his appeal. Akaashi thought about setting techniques, and barely discerned the way the upperclassmen looked at each other over Bokuto’s chattering. 

A week later, they were changing after practice. Bokuto always said Akaashi changed fast, but it was simple. One task followed another. He buttoned up his shirt. He pulled his tie from his locker, tightening the knot and smoothing out the thin fabric. He slung on his jacket, and followed, one button at a time. In that time span, Bokuto had almost taken off his shirt, but not quite. 

Bokuto had his shirt wrapped around his forearms, dangling in his lap. He had been energetic at practice. Now he stared blankly at his partially open locker, his gray uniform messily crammed inside. His legs stretched out before him and his eyebrows tilted together. His eyes were dull. 

Hey, Akaashi, Bokuto said. What would you expect I’d be like?

His one-week girlfriend had broken up with him. In class, while Akaashi gathered his notes, he heard her talking. Not what she expected him to be like. Louder. Too energetic. Way to dedicated to volleyball. Definitely not her type. Akaashi played judge and jury on his way to practice. Nobody’s fault, he decided. Their feelings had simply not been compatible. This was only high school, after all. 

During practice, Bokuto threw himself into the games. He was happy and troublesome, knocking over the cart of volleyballs. They rolled out over the court like marbles, their colors melding and spinning across the span of the gym. Bokuto tried to take responsibility, but he carried too many balls at once. With his arms full, a few balls would shoot out and drop to the floor like heavy weights. Akaashi picked up the volleyballs, two at a time. He chided Bokuto. They had volleyballs covering the court all the time. Go run your lap already. Without Bokuto’s interference, he cleaned the court with ease. 

The coach pulled him aside during practice and praised him for dealing with Bokuto. It wasn’t like that. 

Akaashi accidentally heard the second confession. He crossed behind the building to reach the gym and stumbled across a romantic scene beneath the bent tree. With Bokuto’s volleyball-intensive schedule, crossing paths with him was inevitability rather than coincidence. Akaashi hid behind the stone pillar out of respect for the moment. Another first year, he assumed. She hadn’t spoken to Bokuto before, but she had watched his games and she admired him. She’d like to get to know him better. 

Really! Bokuto was shouting. Really, then of course. He’d like to get to know her better, too. He was happy to receive such a nice confession. He made another few congratulatory Bokuto hoots, but Akaashi slipped away to head to the gym. It was none of his concern. He had already confirmed that whether Bokuto was happily dating someone or unhappily coursing through his break-up, his volleyball remained the same. Akaashi was only a first year setter. The third years surely would step in if they thought anything was amiss with their ace.

When Bokuto was sad, he was a caricature of sadness. He wailed, hands pulling at the roots of his hair. He dropped to his knees, hard enough to bruise, and planted himself to the ground. Sorry, he would cry in twisting anguish, Sorry, never toss to me again! Akaashi wiped his brow with a towel. It had been one mistake. The game hadn’t been going well for any of them. Even the other second years had failed in some serves. But Bokuto flung his arm behind him, striking a supplicant pose. Better to ignore him and wait it out. He’d want to get the ball again in time. Akaashi was right, of course. The mockery of sadness faded into a petulant pout.

The coach complimented him on handling Bokuto. It wasn’t like that.

Akaashi walked home with Bokuto. Today, Bokuto discussed gashapons that dispensed little capsule toys at their whim. He had wanted a plastic owl, but mysteriously, his pocket change had vanished and he was left with everything but the little plastic owl. He contemplated the mysteries of the universe, the entropy that had given him three sets of the same plastic fish but had neglected him the toy. The streets narrowed into thin lines, illuminated by the bluish streetlamp. Bokuto ran his hand along the metal fences and fading brick walls. They passed by the wooden building with the fading sign, shuttered and falling apart. 

They split up at the usual crossing. After a few steps, Akaashi looked back. Usually Bokuto hollered a farewell, loud voice booming off the low houses. Today, Bokuto was looking up at a metal sign. Akaashi hadn’t thought Bokuto could be quiet. His sleeves had rolled down, and he had his hands stuck in his pockets. Thin trails of his breath drifted into the air. He looked quiet, and lost.

Akaashi found out later that his second girlfriend had broken up with him. Too much time on volleyball, she had said, and not enough for dates. Understandable, he thought. A relationship took time and effort, and someone that dedicated in the volleyball club would be dedicated to volleyball. It wasn’t anybody’s fault, but a facet of high school romance. He told himself that, but he continued to recall that moment in the courtyard. When she had confessed, Bokuto had grinned so happily.

A second year boy confessed to Bokuto. Too energetic, he said at the break-up, they had gone to a store and Bokuto had knocked down a rack. A third year confessed. Childish, she said. He forgot his wallet whenever he took her out. A first year confessed. Did he only talk about volleyball? A first year confessed. He made such a big deal about holding hands! It was gross. A second year confessed. A little, um, hard to deal with. His moods went up and down so fast? A third year confessed. He was tired from following Bokuto around, trying to chase after his running. A first year confessed. Wasn’t the ace supposed to be cool? A second year confessed. He’s not very smart, is he.

A first year confessed. He hadn’t been what she had expected him to be like.

A cluster of third years confessed to him as a joke. Akaashi had heard they ditched classes to hang around seedy establishments. It was just a coincidence that a teacher happened to catch them in the act, unrelated to Akaashi’s earlier meeting with the same teacher. 

Akaashi, Bokuto said one day. He always said his name in different ways. Akaashi. Akaaashi. Akaasshi. This time, he said his name like it was a secret. He was still sweating after practice, but he had a sly grin on his face. 

Teach me something, Akaashi.

If Bokuto wanted to learn setting, Akaashi would have refused. If he wanted help with his lessons, Akaashi would have recommended an upperclassman.

Hey, Akaashi. Teach me to be a better boyfriend.

In the end, Akaashi took him out to a fast food place by the station. He treated him to a deluxe meal, and watched him gulp down the burger. Akaashi took a few fries. Other students surrounded them, some even from their school. They talked and yelled and laughed, cell phones pulled out and nails clattering against the screen. In between bites, Bokuto explained his predicament. He had thought about it, really thought about it, because it sucked to be dumped and it must suck to dump someone. They had all expected something from him. He wanted to live up to their expectations. He wanted to work towards that fragmented imagination, and trade years of his life to become those hours on the court. But only Akaashi could help him.

Why me, Akaashi said.

Because Akaashi must have expected something great from him, too. Akaashi must have been disappointed, too. But Akaashi had stayed his friend.

When Bokuto was sad, he was a caricature of sadness. He smiled faintly, arm slung over the back of his chair. He still laughed, eyes closing in some semblance of mirth. It was like he wasn’t sure if he was sad.

Akaashi supposed he had been disappointed in the anticipated ace’s personality. But he didn’t like the word disappointment, each syllable a vast abyss of dejection. It hadn’t been like that. When he arrived on the team, nobody could handle Bokuto. They relied on his good days and looked away on the bad. But Akaashi could coax out his good behavior. The team complimented him on handling Bokuto. It wasn’t like that. 

On the way home, Bokuto let out an outraged cry. He spotted the bewitched gashapon, plastic and foreboding, standing beside a candy store. He warned Akaashi not to touch it, claiming it sucked money from his wallet. Akaashi grabbed some change from his pocket, kneeling down to twist the knob. When he opened the yellow capsule, a little plastic owl fell onto his hand. It wasn’t very cute. The paint had already started to flake and the mold had been ambiguous. He supposed the quality was expected, but he had never played on a toy machine before. 

He gave the toy to Bokuto, who grinned all the way to their street. When Akaashi turned left, he heard Bokuto yelling behind him, excited and pleased, about how he’d see Akaashi tomorrow morning. 

It was a coping mechanism. When Bokuto got dumped, Akaashi gave him things. He bought him drinks from the vending machine. He took him out for meals. Against his better wishes, he even let Bokuto spike with his head. Bokuto became depressed easily, but he cheered up at the smallest things. If Akaashi curled up his straw wrapper and allowed Bokuto to blow through the opening, Bokuto would laugh loudly and blow it again.

Akaashi wasn’t being benevolent. He was practical. Bokuto didn’t need to try to live up to the expectations of vaporous suitors. He only needed to be happy and think about volleyball. 

And Akaashi could even fool himself into thinking his distraction tricks would work.

At three in the morning, his cell phone buzzed. Blearily, he grasped around his nightstand until he found his blinding phone. Incoming call from Bokuto. He had reluctantly given Bokuto his number for emergency use only, and had received only non-emergency texts and calls in return. His thumb missed swiping the green symbol twice. When he finally achieved victory, he dropped the phone near his ear and buried his face into his comfortable pillow, sinking into his bed, limbs heavy. When he didn’t hear anything, his eyes shot open and he grabbed his phone. 

Bokuto finally spoke. He was just wondering that sometimes, when there were cat people, like, in anime, were the cat ears their actual ears. 

Akaashi said he didn’t know, holding the phone between his shoulder and ear. He dressed quickly, even by his own standards, and grabbed his house keys off his desk. 

Bokuto said things in anime were unrealistic, sometimes. Like cat people aside, bird people had it tough, too. Would the wings actually support their weight? He read stuff about birds, sometimes. Or watched it on TV. Nobody had to know.

Understandable, Akaashi said, jogging down the street. His eyes flickered towards the street sigh, barely illuminated even under the lamp. The streets were empty, wind barely stirring the bushes. He took off down a street. 

The thing was, Akaashi, listen, people would have to be super different to be able to fly. Wings aside, they’d have to be strong. Real strong. Not only that, but they’d have to be light. Their bones would need to be hollowed, their organs removed. All their insides would need to be out. 

Fascinating, Akaashi said. He slowed down outside a nearby park where they’d sometimes practiced volleyball before heading home. Beyond the thin trees, he could hear something metal squeaking. After he passed by the slide, he could see Bokuto sitting on a swing, idly pushing himself back and forth, feet never leaving the ground. Even under the half moon, he could see Bokuto’s surprise on spotting him. He tried to calm his breathing, like he hadn’t been running down the street. He stuffed his phone into his pocket, sitting down on the swing beside Bokuto. The metal chain bit into his arms through his thin jacket. Too hurried, he had only swiped his morning jog jacket. Bokuto had a thicker jacket, but his nose was already red from the cold.

The guy had been nice, Bokuto said. They’d gone out for almost a month. The breakup had been peaceful, by a lot of comparisons. He wasn’t upset by it, not really, but for some reason, he found it hard to sleep. And maybe eat. 

Had Bokuto actually liked the guy.

The guy had been nice.

That hadn’t been Akaashi’s question. 

He’d been nice. 

Bokuto continued, metal creaking when he began to swing. Listen, he understood Akaashi’s point, but he’d only known the guy for almost a month. Liking him, disliking him, that was something he didn’t know. He enjoyed his company. He had hoped to get to know him better. It wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t the point.

Stop accepting confessions, Akaashi said. Don’t be so desperate for attention. 

Was that what Akaashi thought? That he was desperate?

Some people were saying that.

That wasn’t Bokuto’s question.

No. It wasn’t what Akaashi thought, but he didn’t understand why Bokuto kept accepting the confessions when he knew where it’d end. 

Bokuto said, listen. He knew what people were saying. He wasn’t that stupid, but he also wasn’t that caring. And maybe he was a little desperate, just a little, because it felt really good to have someone say they wanted to be with him, even for a short while. And of course he knew it’d end when their patience dissolved into disappointment. But, Akaashi, listen, it was more than that, too. When someone approached him with their feelings in their hands, he was moved. He wanted to know them. He was interested. He was hopeful. He would give them his feelings in return.

The rustling of the trees sounded like taunting whispers. Naïve, Akaashi thought. But the reason wasn’t so stupid that he could interfere. He didn’t know when his heart started hurting whenever he heard someone wanted to talk to Bokuto, alone, behind the school building.

Bokuto look tired, heavy rings under his eyes. 

Akaashi, he said, thanks. 

For what?

Putting up with him. Being dumped really put things in perspective. He never really thought about that way before, but Akaashi must be a patient guy. 

Those words had been said to him before, repeated until they lost meaning. Akaashi was such a good kid, Akaashi was so patient, Akaashi put up with so much. He could understand and accept those words, but it wasn’t like that. Or, it was like that, but it wasn’t completely like that. It was like that, but only in a certain way. Akaashi was patient, but he wasn’t altruistic. No shining benevolence arose from his heart and his goodness wasn’t endless. If he really hated doing it, then he wouldn’t do it. He’d been annoyed and irritated at the thoughtless Bokuto who dragged him everywhere, but he was even angrier at the Bokuto who was trying to think of him as someone who was such a beautiful exemplar of serenity.

Unlike Bokuto, he would never endure pain out of kindness. 

Akaashi finally spoke.

He had a proposal, though not a confession. He wanted Bokuto to fall in love with him. To be clear, he didn’t like what Bokuto was currently doing. Both parties in the relationship would surely be hurt in the end. Their friends would also suffer. But he could respect Bokuto’s wishes and his earnest yearning to find a good relationship. He still didn’t like it. And to clarify, he wasn’t sure how he felt, romantically, towards Bokuto. He was only a high school student. His ambiguous feelings were nothing novel. 

But he did know, sharply, that he felt angry and hurt after Bokuto got dumped. For a while, he had played fair. Not their fault, he had told himself. With each ended relationship, his feelings had grown warped. Their excuses had turned from understandable to horrific. If they had honestly watched Bokuto on the court, then his characteristics would surely be obvious. Instead, they pushed the blame on Bokuto. Even worse, Bokuto had begun to accept these complaints as legitimate, like he needed to live up to a phantom legacy when only their deluded desires existed. Bokuto’s energy and moods had their downsides, but his liveliness made everything fun. 

As for Akaashi himself, he certainly had expectations on entering the powerhouse school. But he couldn’t accept disappointment as the only description on first meeting Bokuto. Akaashi wouldn’t toss for him if he didn’t trust in his abilities. Over time, Bokuto continued to surpass his expectations. Furthermore, and most importantly, he may endure Bokuto’s moods, but it wasn’t only like that. He certainly suffered, but he wasn’t only putting up with Bokuto.

He was Bokuto’s friend. 

Which brought him to his point. He wasn’t only suggesting this proposal out of pity, but rightful concern. Bokuto would likely only reject a confession if he liked someone else or he was already going out with someone. If the former was not possible, then Akaashi would accept dating him. If Bokuto was even a little bit desperate for attention, then Akaashi would give him attention. He could not promise there would be no pain in their new relationship. Entering into the formal proposal couldn’t count as a pleasant experience. Though Akaashi was demanding his love, he wasn’t promising the same in return. But he would never turn Bokuto away for stupid reasons. Bokuto would no longer have to endure that hurt. So Bokuto should just fall in love with him.

Akaashi stopped talking. He wasn’t sure if Bokuto understood what he was saying. While he spoke, Bokuto had begun smiling, like the sun breaking its rays over a horizon. He had laughed, too. It was hard to tell in the dark, but the edges of Bokuto’s eyes may have been damp. 

In the end, Bokuto grabbed his hand. His fingers were cold. They sat in silence, the night still stretching out before them. The dim moon afforded them some kind light. Bokuto’s hand was rough and calloused. Akaashi thought back to the time when he was an unknown first year, sitting alone in the gym. The celebrated ace had stopped and sat with him, binding the aches of his fingers. 

Akaashi could imagine it like this. Bokuto was a being with wings. He was very strong, but his wings had been mangled. The hollow bones had been snapped, feathers torn out, blood mottling in dark clumps, all his insides spilling out. Akaashi was the one with the needle and thread, sewing closed the raw gashes. He was the one with the bandages, who pressed his hand firm against the joints. He was the one who wrapped the gauze around the wings, folding and winding in good, clean strokes.


End file.
